


touching you is best

by stonedgeralt



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Relationship, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedgeralt/pseuds/stonedgeralt
Summary: It’s not long before Jaskier’s breathing slows and deepens. His heartbeat is strong, steady, and it should give Geralt comfort. Instead, he flops onto his back and sighs, staring up at the night sky through the trees. A minute later, he rolls onto his side. Then he turns onto his stomach. Each time Geralt shifts, he grunts in frustration. He has to stay awake, has to ensure that Jaskier makes it through the night. He should have made him take that yarrow tincture before he fell asleep, dammit.---After Jaskier puts himself in danger, a very nervous Geralt has trouble falling asleep - until Jaskier figures out how to calm him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 221





	touching you is best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [troubadore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/gifts).



> I have SO MUCH that I'm currently working on, so it feels really good to finish something! Thanks for the inspo, Dallie ❤
> 
> The title and the excerpt at the beginning are from "Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand” by Walt Whitman.

* * *

_Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,_   
_Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip,_   
_Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;_   
_For thus merely touching you is enough, is best,_   
_And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally._

* * *

“And I said, ‘Sir, you have the wrong—’” Jaskier pauses. “Er, Geralt? What are you doing?”

Geralt quickly lets go of Jaskier’s arm. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looks at him curiously. Understanding dawns on his face, and he smiles softly. “Geralt,” he says, “I told you, I’m fine.”

With a noncommittal grunt, Geralt turns his attention to the fire.

“I swear,” Jaskier continues. “Not a scratch on me! Right as rain, fit as a fiddle, et cetera.”

“You should have stayed put,” Geralt says, “like I told you to.”

“Oh, but Geralt, how was I to see the… the…” Jaskier frowns thoughtfully. “What was that beast again?”

“Ekimmara.”

“Yes, that. How was I supposed to see it from here at camp? And how was I to know that it was so quick, or that its claws were so long?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “I could have told you when I returned.”

“You’re so stingy with details, though.” Jaskier pokes at the fire with a long stick he’d found on their way back. “For instance, you would have left out its spiky bits in your description, and the name of the potion you took - Black Blood, right?” When Geralt nods stiffly, Jaskier goes on: “Besides, I… I didn’t want to just _listen_ to the fight.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks. He sometimes forgets that humans _can_ actually hear sounds above a shout. The thought of listening to the ekimmara’s bestial shrieks, the clang of a blade against claws - Geralt admits that even he would find that unsettling, especially if he couldn’t see the source.

“I can always hear the fighting,” Jaskier says, and his voice is quiet now, solemn. “But I can hear the end, too, that horribly abrupt silence, and I never know if you’ve won, or… or if you’re dead and it’s coming for me, next.”

The breath leaves Geralt’s lungs in a painful rush, like he’s been kicked in the chest. His heart aches. He remembers, through the haze and heat of battle, hearing Jaskier’s noisy footsteps in the undergrowth behind him. He remembers the rage he’d felt when he realized Jaskier had disobeyed, and the blinding terror that immediately followed when the ekimmara’s beady black eyes had focused on its new target. Geralt had seen what this ekimmara did to its victims - bodies drained of blood, limbs torn asunder, eyes still wide with fear - and the thought of it ripping into Jaskier had renewed Geralt’s strength in a way a potion never could.

He can’t recall ever moving so quickly, each blow of his silver sword striking true while shots of Igni illuminated the forest.

Afterwards, Geralt spent twenty minutes checking Jaskier for injuries. After his initial shock had worn off, Jaskier batted his worried hands away, repeatedly claiming he was fine. Geralt had resisted the urge to reach out and touch him for an hour, fidgeting until his bedroll had crumpled up beneath him. He wishes he’d brought Roach with them, but it was safer for her to remain in town. Geralt usually brushes her to calm himself down.

“Geralt, are you—?”

“I would never let anything happen to you,” Geralt says quickly, and oh, now he’s done it. He hears Jaskier’s soft, sharp gasp, and the way the bard’s heart rate nearly doubles. 

“I know,” Jaskier murmurs. “I know you wouldn’t, Geralt.”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” 

Jaskier laughs and looks at him fondly. “I’m fine,” he says. “I promise.” Then he reaches for his lute case and pulls out the instrument, claiming he needs to start composing before he forgets the details.

Geralt groans good-naturedly, but he’s still worried. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be in pain, and Geralt can’t smell any blood, but he’s terrified that something could be wrong. What if he doesn’t notice something serious? What if Jaskier is bleeding internally, or he has a concussion, and he dies in the night, while Geralt is asleep? Maybe Geralt can convince him to take a dose of yarrow tincture, and he might have some coltsfoot balm left…

“Did you hear me?”

“Mm, what?” Geralt asks, turning to Jaskier.

“I said that I’m exhausted,” Jaskier says. He’s already stripped down to his chemise. “You should rest, too.”

Despite his hum of agreement, Geralt doubts he’ll sleep at all tonight. Still, he drags his bedroll away from the fire and strips down to his smallclothes. He lies down facing away from Jaskier, trying to hide his nervousness as best he can.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Sleep well.”

“Sleep well, Jaskier.”

It’s not long before Jaskier’s breathing slows and deepens. His heartbeat is strong, steady, and it should give Geralt comfort. Instead, he flops onto his back and sighs, staring up at the night sky through the trees. A minute later, he rolls onto his side. Then he turns onto his stomach. Each time Geralt shifts, he grunts in frustration. He has to stay awake, has to ensure that Jaskier makes it through the night. He should have made him take that yarrow tincture before he fell asleep, dammit.

Geralt finally settles onto his side, facing Jaskier. His breathing isn’t shallow or pained, and his heart rate is normal for a sleeping human. Geralt gets the urge to scream. He _knows_ he’s being ridiculous, but he can’t shake the feeling that, if he lets his guard down—

Jaskier stirs, his brow furrowing. “Geralt?”

“I’m here.”

“I know,” Jaskier says on a yawn. “You’re making the fire too hot.”

“I’m— what?”

Jaskier sighs and sits up, rubbing his eyes. “When you’re fidgety,” he explains, “your witcher signs act up. This time it’s Igni, and you’re making the fire too hot. Look, see the color?”

Geralt turns to the fire and curses. The flames have gone a mix of orange and blue, and Geralt couldn’t feel it before, but Jaskier is right: it’s way too hot. He quickly calms the flames and apologizes.

“‘S alright.” Jaskier blinks at him. “Why can’t you sleep? Potion still affecting you?”

“No, not that.”

“Then what? I can’t sleep either with all the twisting and grunting you’re doing.”

Geralt doesn’t answer. How can he explain what he’s feeling? He doesn’t even know what could fix it, other than seeing Jaskier wake up in the morning.

“Still worried about me, huh?” Jaskier asks. “Ah, you just flinched, so I must be right. Hang on.” He shuffles over to Geralt, dragging his bedroll behind him. After he arranges it next to Geralt’s spot, he lies down. “Better?”

Geralt’s nostrils flare. This isn’t what he’d had in mind, but he realizes immediately that it’s exactly what he needs. He wraps an arm around Jaskier’s torso and pulls him close, until their chests are nearly flush, then presses his hand to Jaskier’s sternum. Geralt breathes a sigh of relief when he feels it, the thrumming under his palm, quicker now than it had been before. He uses his other hand to tuck Jaskier’s head under his chin, so that he can feel each puff of breath against his skin. The tension quickly seeps from Geralt’s body; his jaw unclenches, and his shoulders relax.

“Better,” he says finally, and grins when Jaskier laughs.

“Good.” Jaskier drapes his arm over Geralt and nudges his knee between Geralt’s thighs. “If I’d known all you needed was a cuddle—"

“Shut up.”

Jaskier laughs again. Then he yawns loudly. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he murmurs. “See you in the morning.”

“Sleep well,” Geralt replies. He absently strokes his thumb through the hair just behind Jaskier’s ear. When Jaskier’s breathing has slowed again, he whispers, “I’ll always keep you safe, Jaskier.” Against his better judgment, Geralt presses a soft kiss to the crown of Jaskier’s head. “Always,” he repeats. Then he focuses on finding sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, it’s to Jaskier struggling out of his arms because he has to piss. Geralt rolls away and Jaskier staggers to his feet, cursing and fumbling with his chemise. To give him some privacy, Geralt busies himself with packing their bedrolls. He’s warm and well-rested, and Jaskier is perfectly fine. Even though Geralt had said a few things that he hadn’t planned to say, he’s not going to dwell on it. He’s had a soft spot for Jaskier since they’d met, and he’s grown rather tired of hiding it.

On their way back to town, Geralt spots a sign warning of bandits in the area, and tells Jaskier to stay close.

“Oh, but Geralt,” Jaskier says sweetly, “you’ll always keep me safe, right?” He grins at the blush that rises in Geralt’s cheeks, then strolls ahead, plucking out a jaunty tune on his lute.

After a moment, Geralt laughs to himself and hurries to catch up with his bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter [@stonedgeralt](https://www.twitter.com/stonedgeralt)!


End file.
